Saddles
by SillverMedal
Summary: On the road the Rome, friendships will be forged. Enemies will be seen. Tales will be told. A Sarmatian knight will pave his future. And the legend you did not know will begin.
1. Saddles

"Good evening."

Lancelot looked up from the saddle he was mending. Across from where he was sitting cross legged on a boulder stood a boy.

The boy—who he knew had to be Sarmatian as well—had light blonde hair, curly and untamed, and billowing into his clear blue eyes.

"Good evening." Said Lancelot.

The boy walked over to him and glanced down at the saddle. He held an apple in one hand, a pouch in the other. "Is it broken?"

Lancelot looked back down at the saddle. "Yes. No. Not really. More of something to do, really." He shrugged and continued.

The boy looked at him curiously. "I saw your village a couple days ago. Your necklace...Did your sister give it to you?"

Lancelot 's hands found the pendant, and he frowned. "Yes. It was my grandfather's. He died in battle and they gave my grandmother his pendant..."

"Oh." Said the boy solemnly.

A few moments passed in silence, before the boy brightened again.

"My name's Galahad." He stated.

"I'm Lancelot." Replied Lancelot, nodding.

"Today's my birthday, I'm eleven." Galahad smiled.

"That's nice."

"Yes." And Galahad stared at the saddle. "How old are you?"

Lancelot looked up again, his black curls lifted by the strong wind. "I'm thirteen."

"When is your birthday?" Galahad queried.

Lancelot sighed and turned the saddle over to better inspect the other side. "I don't know. Sometime in winter."

Galahad's eyes widened. "You don't know your own birthday?"

Lancelot frowned. "It wasn't a big deal back home."

"But don't you want to know?"

Lancelot suddenly felt very annoyed with the boy. "No. Not really." He snapped, and Galahad's face fell a little.

"Sorry. It's just...there's no one else to talk to." He said.

Lancelot sighed again, feeling a bit ashamed. "It's alright."

Again moments passed into silence; awkward and quiet.

"Do you want to be a knight?" Asked Galahad.

Lancelot put down the rag and looked again up at the boy.

"I don't know." He said finally.

"Well, I don't." Said Galahad, turning to face the east. Lancelot followed his gaze. The sun was beginning to set, the blue sky tinged with pink and blood red.

"See where the hills stop? They all just...stop. And then there's a river and trees, and fields that never end." Murmured Galahad. "That's my home out there." Lancelot smiled a little.

"That's my home, too. Where the endless oceans of grass go so far you can't see the end, and the rivers are like great walls, only flat, and they wind like the path of a snake. So unpredictable. So free." The two young knights stood quiet.

Then Galahad spoke up again. "What do you think Rome is like?"

Lancelot shook his head. "I would not know."

He turned and sat down again on the boulder, resting the polished saddle on his lap, focusing on it once more. Galahad just stood there, staring off into the deepening sunset, not speaking.

"But we'll see it again."

Lancelot looked up. "What?"

"Home." Said Galahad, not looking at him. "We'll come back."

"In fifteen years." Said Lancelot bitterly, looking back down at the saddle. Fifteen years and then some.

"Yes. But maybe not that long." Said Galahad softly.

Lancelot suddenly rose, setting the saddle on the dirt again, and walking to stand next to Galahad.

"I don't image that I shall manage not to dream about it, every night." Said Galahad sadly. "How could I forget?"

Lancelot just stood next to him quietly.

"Galahad," he started, ending the silence. "Have you ever heard the legend that great knights come back home as great horses?"

Galahad cocked his head. "Great horses?"

Lancelot smiled a little. "Yes. After they die. Does your horse have a name?"

Galahad nodded eagerly. "Baruss."

Lancelot grinned. "Baruss could have been a great knight. Just think about it: A strong warrior, riding out into battle bravely. A hero, really. All the women swoon for him, and he is a loyal friend to his fellow men."

Galahad laughed a little. "Yes. And he was great with a sword."

Lancelot chuckled. "Of course he was."

"You know something?" Commented Galahad.

"What?" Asked Lancelot.

"I think we're both going to be like Baruss. Some day."

Lancelot smiled again. "Maybe."

Galahad shrugged. "We have fifteen years to become like him."

Lancelot sighed. "You're right about that."

"Lancelot?" Asked Galahad a little while after, when it was dark.

"Yes?"

"Good night."

Then Lancelot laughed, and was joined by Galahad.

And not far from them, a certain black horse tossed his black head, whickering into the chilly black hair.

And then it began to rain.

Please review! I promise to write more stories if only you review! Thank you! )


	2. Behind and Ahead

"We'll make camp here."

Lancelot slid off his horse, eyes nearly shutting with exhaustion and hunger. It had been a long, cold ride all day, and he had been riding with only a brief pause for mid time meal.

Leading his black horses away from the main activity, Lancelot released him to graze of what remained of the frozen blades of grass.

He wanted only to sink down into his warm bed back home, and to hear his mother singing little Mara to sleep in the mattress next to him. Father would be in the next room, poking at the fire, sometimes drinking a little, but never too much of the ale that was available.

But Lancelot was here.

And it mattered little what his family was doing, at least in the physical sense. All that left for him to do was unwrap some of the bread and take the merciless ground and cotton blanket for a bed.

"It's going to rain again."

Lancelot jumped at the sudden noise, dropping his bread on the ground. Scowling, his picked it up hastily and swung around.

"What?" He asked impatiently, taking in the boy who looked to be his age. Rather shaggy gray-brown hair stretched down to just below his ears, accompanied by a thin face and lean body, and all-knowing brown eyes.

But the boy seemed not to answer Lancelot's question, as he eyed the bread. "How much have you got left?"

Lancelot stared at the other boy for a moment, before acknowledging the question. "Um, just a few more pieces."

The boy nodded wisely. "What is your age?"

"Thirteen," said Lancelot, flustered.

"That makes me older by two years."

"Oh." Said Lancelot, at a supreme loss for words.

"Yeah, we're all about the same age here."

"Who?"

The boy motioned to the other Sarmatians making camp. "All of the new Roman knights."

Lancelot nodded shortly, before taking a small bite out of his bread. The boy was odd, that much he could tell.

"I am Tristan." He stated, looking square into Lancelot's eyes.

"I'm Lancelot," said Lancelot.

"Is that your horse?" Tristan queried, looking at a black horse standing by a tall tree.

"No, that's Baruss. He's Galahad's." Answered Lancelot, remembering the younger boy, and all the fantasies about his horse.

"Ah."

Lancelot stood uncomfortably. He dimly registered that it was rude to eat in front of someone, but he somehow guessed that Tristan did not care.

It was like that at first for a few moments.

A few minutes.

Minutes and moments that turned into a period of time that neither spoke. Lancelot finished his bread, and played with his pendant a little bit.

"Hoy! Lancelot!" Called a voice merrily.

Lancelot sighed in relief when he saw that it was Galahad.

"Come here and see the view! I think I can see my mother!"

Lancelot laughed out loud, he had been so preoccupied, that he had failed to see that they had reached the top of the largest hill in the land. As a young lad, Lancelot had wondered what the view was like from the peak of the precipice. Ironic how he would finally see it when it really didn't matter anymore.

But nonetheless he wished to go see it.

He turned quickly, remembering at only the last second that Tristan was still standing looking at him.

"Do you want to come and see?" Lancelot offered, hesitantly.

Tristan studied him a little before answering. "I choose not to remember the past when it does so little for the future."

"Oh. Right." Said Lancelot, pretending to understand.

"Well then," he said, "I'll be seeing you, I guess..."

And he turned to go.

"Wait, Lancelot." Tristan called softly. "I will go."

Lancelot never asked why Tristan had a sudden change of heart. All he knew was that the strange boy two years elder to him was standing next to him atop the hill. Galahad at his other side. And next to them stood others; other young boys taken so young from their homeland, to become a Roman knight.

And from the top of the hill, they could see it.

They could see home.

Perhaps this was why none but one chose to look forward, and forget about what lay behind for a few moments. For he noticed something that mattered much more to him than the home he would not see for fifteen years. For something else was across the distance before him.

A great city, tall and looming.

It had to be Rome. Where they were going.

But Tristan walked away, leaving his comrades laughing and smiling tearfully at their home.

They would find out soon enough.

-0-0-0-TBC-0-0-0-

Right, so, please review! Thank you sooo much VK for reviewing! You're so kind!


	3. First Look

A/N: Sorry about the format; when I originally posted this chapter, I had some issues with the look of it. Hopefully I can get that taken care of soon! As always, I own nothing I am writing about, I'm just borrowing them; I promise to give them back...when I'm done...Enjoy! Anni

"Lancelot, wake up!"

"What?"

"We're here!"   
"Where's here?"   
"Rome!"   
Lancelot stood up so fast that for a few seconds the world spun around him like a top. Steadying himself seconds later, Lancelot followed Galahad out of the tent.   
"S'big, isn't it?" One of the others commented.   
"Crowded too, look at all those people riding about. It's a wonder they don't hit each other." Another replied.   
"How long have we been here?" Lancelot asked Galahad quietly, looking down from atop the hill. From his birds-eye-view lay buildings and buildings, all bustling with impatient activity. Horses and people were everywhere, some talking, most focused on their duties and jobs.   
"Since last night. It was so dark, and we were so tired, that I guess nobody noticed." Galahad answered eagerly. "Except for Tristan..." He added as an afterthought. Another boy snorted.   
"He'd notice if a worm moved under the ground. I swear he's got eyes like a hawk." The boy, Lancelot remembered, was called Bors, and he was older than most of them. Tall and stocky, he proved threatening to the younger boys like Galahad.   
"How far is it, do you think, Gabriael?" The one called Gawain asked. Gabriael ran a hand through his dark red hair and sighed dramatically. "Half a days ride, perhaps. If we start off soon."   
"Then why don't we?" Galahad piped up eagerly.   
"Are the soldiers ready?" Galaghway, another Sarmatian, wondered out loud.   
"Of course not. The sun has barely risen." Gawain rolled his eyes.   
Lancelot stood off from the others. They were so close to Rome now, so close he could just make out the breads in the bakery stands. Some, like Galahad, could not wait to get started and ride down to greet their new life. But Lancelot was not so eager and it seemed to him that Rome may not be either.   
He casually stepped away, back to where his horse grazed happily in the dew-sprinkled grass. "Are you ready for Rome?" He whispered to the animal, then immediately looked behind him, hoping that he had not been seen talking to his horse. It was something he was accustomed to, but that remained his secret.   
"Do not worry. You were not seen."   
Lancelot was too used to this to be startled, and only stroked his horse's mane. "Except by you." He said to Tristan.   
The two boys stood in silence for a little while. Each preoccupied with his own thoughts, one darker than the other's.   
"Why do you not stand with the others?" Lancelot asked, not looking at Tristan. 

Truth be told he thought that he knew the answer, but he was not a fan of awkward silences, and the other Sarmatian was not going to break it anytime soon.   
"Why do you not?" Said Tristan.   
Lancelot frowned. "I am not as eager as they are."   
"You do not wish to go to Rome."   
It was a statement. Not a question. And he was right. 

"No." Answered Lancelot honestly, looking at the sky.   
-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0- They galloped down the hill, slowing down to a walk as the land became even again. The grass here was as green as Lancelot had ever seen it back home. The ground going on and on until it met the city. A river meandered through the dirt, sparkling in the morning's sun. Lancelot grew tired as the day wore on, choosing to study the passing landscapes as to avoid falling asleep on horseback. The river had opened up to a small lake, where women chatted merrily with small buckets of water, and men stood at a distance with their horses.   
It was then that Lancelot became aware of a boy around his own age standing not so far away. His hair was light brown, almost golden, and he stood solemnly next to a man in dark robes.   
Their eyes connected at that moment, even as the rain began to fall from the skies, and the line of young Sarmatians moved on. Lancelot did not, could not, smile, but he did feel something he had let go of miles ago. A tinge of hope.   
And then they moved on and the other boy whose name Lancelot did not know disappeared in the distance.   
He was not aware that he would never forget the day that was rolling past him now like the grasses lifted by the wind.   
But as their neared their resting point, he was aware of the screams that had suddenly pierced the air. Of the cries of anger echoing through the countryside. Of the sudden snorting, whinnying, and shying of the horses.   
And of the sword aimed at his throat. -0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-   
Thanks so much for the reviews! More coming very soon!   



	4. Sword on Sword

"HOLD BACK!"

Every horse whinnied in fear, backing up so fast that several riders fell from their saddles and onto the ground.

Lancelot barely breathed.

It was only his second time that he had been at this end of a sword before. And it was the first that he was virtually unarmed. His dagger was in his pack, which was strung round his saddle; out of reach.

He sat as still as he could, keeping his neck and head even. Daring to look onto the face of the owner of the sword, Lancelot met the wild eyes of a man who obviously did not want to kill Lancelot.

Lancelot frowned, but could not seem to meet the man's eyes again.

Suddenly a wild cry rose up around the Sarmatians and officers, sending a flock of geese from somewhere in the woods to rise up, screeching in annoyance.

Lancelot—not being able to move his head—could not see nearly as much as he wished that he could. But his hearing had not been limited.

He took in the sound of sword on sword, the grunts and groans of the fighters, and the screams of those surprised.

An arrow whistled past Lancelot's ear, hitting the chest of the man Lancelot had looked upon moments before. The man fell with a grunt; and now Lancelot could move.

He grasped his dagger, and quickly ran over to where Gawain stood, trying to hold off another.

"Who are they?" Lancelot shouted above the noise, meaning the men.

"Dunno, did they get anyone of us?" Gawain answered between gasps of breath as he continued to block the man's path.

Lancelot shook his head; he had no idea.

A horse and its rider rode up behind the man Gawain had been blocking, a long sword quickly severing his head.

Gawain gulped in air as he stepped back.

Slowly the sounds ceased to only the sound of metal and heavy breathes.

"Ah! So at last you have arrived!"

The speaker rode up on a spotless white horse to one of Lancelot's two officers. He was dressed as they were; red flowing cape, gold and silver armor.

The officers rode up to him. "Is this custom now, here?" One of them questioned, motioning to the bodies of the men. "Tell me, who are these men?"

The speaker waved his hand as if it were of no importance. "Rebels from the north. They've been attacking routinely all month."

"And nothing has been done about it?"

The speaker laughed. "Well, what do you suggest, officer?"

The officer shook his head, managing a small smile.

Upset and tired, the young Sarmatian mounted their horses again, returning their weapons to their proper places.

Suddenly the speaker seemed to notice them, and he smiled even wider.

"Finally you have brought them. The...commander...is very anxious to meet them. We have, so you see, quick need of them. Or rather, Rome has need."

The second officer spoke up. "And how is young Artorius?"

The speaker smiled. "Curious. He wishes to meet his new knights. He knows not that they are his same age, save a years few."

The officers chuckled. "We will come into the city now, before the sun sets."

The speaker nodded. "You were lucky last night that you were not attacked. These rebels strike often, but their strength never wanes."

"All the better that we've got some new knights, then, eh?"

"All the better, yes."

And so it was such that Lancelot and his fellow Sarmatians were led into the city for the first time.

"Can you believe that welcome?" Galahad muttered to Lancelot when they were riding again. He gripped his reins hard, as if angry.

"I can believe that we'll be seeing more 'welcomes' as that." Lancelot replied bitterly, urging his horse forward.

They were greeted with large white structures, rising up to gallant roof tops and candles strung across like spider webs. Everywhere laughter and singing from the taverns could be heard, as well as the sounds of bickering, conversing, and horses. Despite the sun almost being down completely, the sounds grew louder.

"Ah! And here is our young Artorius!" The first speaker announced.

Lancelot recognized the boy at once, as the one he had seen a day and half ago at the river. But Artorius was not wearing the same curious and content look. Instead, it had been replaced by a look of utter, and sheer terror.

"The rebels!" He gasped, voice high with fear. "They've attacked the other part of the city! My mother-"

But the officers wasted no time, quickly galloping past the distraught boy, swords held high, and gleaming in the candlelight.

Artorius was left alone with the thirty seven Sarmatian knights. Boys he did not know now, but would eventually.

Tears streamed down the Roman's face openly, as his shoulders racked with sobs. "They killed her! They trapped her i-in the h-h-house! And now..."

His words elapsed into sobs again.

Lancelot sat awkwardly on his horse, staring at the boy. Nobody else seemed to be moving, nor did they seem to know what to do.

"What of your father?" Bors asked hesitantly.

Artorius shook his head tearfully. "He's dead too!"

Lancelot looked down. The initial outrage he had felt at being informed that their new commander was his own age had all but disappeared, leaving pity and confusion in its place.

Lancelot could see Tristan looking like he wanted to leave the boy to his peace, and Gawain and Galahad looking awkward and embarrassed to not be crying. Bors just looked guilty, having asked a question that had perhaps caused more sorrow for the Roman.

But nobody was moving, and the young Roman looked lost and extremely distraught. Sighing, Lancelot dismounted, and slowly walked towards Artorius. He had little to no experience in comforting someone. In his tribe, that was always left to a family member, or good friend.

But nonetheless, Lancelot came to a stop before Artorius. Years later he still did not know why he did what he did. But whatever it was that made Lancelot hold out his hand, was perhaps the same force that also made Artorius.

"I-I am sorry..." Lancelot began quietly. "For your...er, loss."

Artorius sniffed. "She wanted to go." He murmured, so only Lancelot could hear. "She wanted to die ever since father died." And Lancelot only frowned. "I-I went to his-his grave. I pulled out the sword, and..." It was then that the Sarmatian noticed the long, heavy-looking sword at the Roman's side.

"But I didn't get there in time." Artorius whispered, grief staining his voice. But no more tears fell, instead, the sword fell from its grasp, and clattered to the ground, echoing.

"I am Lancelot." He said, looking at the boy intently.

"My name is Arthur." Said Artorius. "You are a knight?"

And for the first time since leaving Sarmatia, Lancelot finally began to understand truly his new life. "Yes." He said.

And Arthur smiled the tiniest smile, which was matched by Lancelot. Flames licked the night air, swords clanging disrupted the stillness.

And then suddenly, a Sarmatian night fell from his horse.

-0-0-0-TBC-0-0-0-

A/N: I'm SO sorry for the wait! Real life got in the way as it so often does... doesn't have a response system to reply to my reviews, so I've decided to reply at the end of each chapter, as a thank you!

Sooo...

Camlann- Thank you, I'm glad you like the story so far! And there are 37 boys. )

Camreyn- I agree with what you said about Lancelot and Tristan. And I will explain the Galahad question you had soon )! Thanks for reviewing!

Raine- I'm glad you enjoyed it! Thanks! )

The Voice Within- Thanks, I'm glad you liked the scenery descriptions! )

Lilyofthevalley4- I'm glad you're interested! Thanks for reviewing! )

0-0-0-More coming soon-0-0-0-


	5. Remember The Hill

"True courage is not the brutal force of vulgar heroes, but the firm resolve of virtue and reason."-Whitehead

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

A sharp cry rose up from the small horde of horses and riders. It was quiet against the loud shouts of the ruckus in the town, but loud enough to give Lancelot a chill. He turned sharply back to his comrades, startled.

"Galahad!" Gabrieal cried in surprise, horror evident on his pale face.

"He's been shot!"

"There's an arrow, look!"

"Gods! Who shot it?"

Arthur's eyes widened as he followed Lancelot to where Galahad's horse whinnied in anxiety, prancing in place.

Gawain had got there first, and he kneeled next to where Galahad lay. The Sarmatian's head was against the ground, but an ugly black arrow protruded from his back. Blood slowly oozed from the wound, staining the dirt.

"Did you see it happen?" Lancelot asked Gawain quickly.

"Just him fall. Tristan saw more than I." Gawain answered shakily. Lancelot knew that he and Galahad were good friends, hardly apart. Though Gawain was a full two years to Galahad's age, it didn't seem to matter.

"What do we do, Lancelot? We've only just arrived!" Gawain looked to Lancelot for help, and all Lancelot could think of to do was find Tristan. He cursed himself for his inability to do anything but complicate the situation.

"Wait!" Shouted a voice suddenly.

Arthur pushed past Lancelot and knelt before Galahad. "He's still breathing! See?" He pointed to the arrow. "It missed his heart. And it didn't go in deep either. You could almost pull it out..."

"You don't want to be doing that." Tristan voiced his opinion from behind Gawain. Lancelot didn't even ask himself how he had gotten there without being noticed. He was already surprised by the Roman's knowledge. His feeling of stupidity rose, and had he not been so concerned for Galahad's well being, he would have felt utterly embarrassed.

Arthur looked up at him. "And why is that?"

"Because we have nothing to stop the bleeding." Tristan remarked, studying Galahad, he frowned. "And you have no healing experience."

"Not true!" Said Arthur defensively. "My grandmother was a healer and she taught me a little! And besides I have the authority here!"

"Ha!" Taunted Bors from atop his horse. Arthur's eyes flashed as he looked up. "How old are you, anyway?"

"I am fourteen years old, and soon to be your commander!"

"I am seventeen years old and they expect me to listen to a BOY? It's-."

"Ssssssssh!" Lancelot hissed loudly, catching a faint groan from Galahad.

"I'll fetch someone!" Someone shouted, but Arthur stood up quickly.

"No! You'll get killed if you go out there!"

"He needs help!" Dagonet protested, coming out of his shell a little bit.

A moments silence.

Lancelot was at a complete and utter loss of what to do. Galahad was stirring, and it was clear that he would need immediate attention to his wound.

"I'll go." Arthur suddenly said, sound hesitant. "Yes. I will go."

"You'll get killed!" A Sarmatian shouted.

"It's my job to value your lives over my own! And I intend to do my job, and do it right! He needs help, and I will go and get it." Arthur said forcefully.

"You are not yet commander." Said Tristan, looking at Arthur. "It is not yet your job."

But Arthur shook his head. "It is my job. Your commander or not."

Lancelot stood also. He remembered his first meeting with Galahad, and swallowed a lump in his throat. "I will come too."

Arthur turned to him. "No, you stay. It's not your j-"

"That doesn't matter. He is my friend." Lancelot would not take no for an answer. Clicking his tongue to call over his horse, he grasped the reins.

Arthur did not look pleased with this, but he seemed to accept it. "I do not have my horse to ride..."

Tristan stepped forward, handing Arthur reins. "You can take mine. I will watch over Galahad with the others, I have a small knowledge of training." Arthur nodded his thanks, and Tristan looked up at Lancelot. "Remember the hill."

Lancelot was puzzled by his words, but tried not to show it. He expected that Tristan meant the hill they had seen months ago, but then again with the other knight you never could be sure.

Quickly he mounted as Arthur did the same, and they urged their horses into a fast gallop towards the burning town.

Black smoke rose up from a building. Lancelot stole a quick glance at Arthur, and was not surprised to see the Roman fighting back tears.

-0-0-0-0-TBC-0-0-0-0-

A/N: Ok, please review! I only got two last chapter...So I dunno, are people just not interested anymore? Updates won't come fast if nobody reviews, just because I won't want to continue writing something nobody wants to read...

Camreyn- I'm glad you liked the situation, and you're right, it'll strengthen the connection between Arthur and his knights. Thanks for reviewing! 

WildRose- I can see Lancelot doing the same thing! I'm glad you're enjoying the story, and thanks for reviewing! 

Source: 


	6. Above the Roar of Battle

"Without a sign his sword the brave man draws, and asks no omen but his country's cause."-Homer (The Iliad...bk. XII, I. 283; Pope's transition)

"Do you know which way?" Lancelot shouted above the roar of fighting. Not because he doubted that Arthur did, but because despite all the noise, he found the silence between them loud.

"Yes." Said Arthur simply. "I know a man who can help." He did not look at Lancelot, only stared straight ahead.

Lancelot let him be. He could imagine the pain weighing on his 'commander's' mind. It must be hard to both loose one's mother and have to step into one's duty in one night.

So they rode the short distance in silence. Arthur taking the back at an attempt for safety, but Lancelot knew that fire knew no boundaries.

"He lives back here." Said Arthur, nodding towards a street.

"And he'll still be in his house? During all this?" Lancelot clarified skeptically. He doubted very much that an educated Roman would still sit inside his own house when a violent invasion was rampaging outside his front door.

"Trust me...?"

"Lancelot."

"Trust me, Lancelot, he'll be there." Said Arthur confidently. "He wouldn't just leave..." Said the Roman quieter.

Lancelot was silent.

-0-0-0-0-0-

"Galahad! Can you hear me?" Gawain said quickly.

Galahad stirred. He had been moved on his side and his green eyes flickered open a bit.

"What?" He murmured. Squinting in the moonlight.

"Thank the gods!" Breathed Bors from above him. He clapped a flustered Gabrieal on the shoulder, and walked over to Tristan.

"Well?" Bors snapped expectantly. "You're the healer, aren't ya?"

Tristan looked at him calmly. "Out of everyone here? Yes."

"Okay, then." Bors nodded. "What do we do now?"

Gawain looked up from his kneeling position on the ground. "Do we move him?" The other Sarmatians breathed again, relieved talk breaking out.

"No." Said Tristan "We should wait until Lancelot comes back."

"He's not coming back."

Tristan, Bors, Dagonet, and Gawain all turned sharply at the voice. But Gabrieal looked defiantly back at them.

"He just marched into a burning town about to be destroyed, over flooded with some kind of insane rebels, and a roman for direction! You honestly think he's gonna trot back here with help, and be in one piece?" Gabrieal laughed humorlessly. "Face it, knights, he's as dead as that guy." He pointed to a lifeless body on the ground.

"That is NOT TRUE!" Bors shouted angrily. "He WILL come back, and then YOU will be the one dead after I-,"

"DON'T threaten me!" Gabrieal retorted furiously.

But Bors started towards him anyway. But Tristan grabbed him from behind with surprising strength and speed.

"Stop it!" Tristan shouted. Everyone froze to look at him, and the din from the fighting seemed to grow louder. It was rare that Tristan's voice got above conversation level, let alone shouting.

"Gabrieal," He began. "Whether or not you believe he will, I have full confidence in Lancelot and Arthur, and have no doubt that they will return."

-0-0-0-0-

Arthur slammed his fists against the closed wooden door, while Lancelot watched his back-dagger ready.

Suddenly Arthur broke through the door, but at the same instant two rebels came charging at Lancelot. The Sarmatian held his ground, dagger held high. Arthur saw them running, and quickly tossed Arthur another dagger.

"I'll go get help. Follow me!" Arthur cried above the noise.

But Lancelot shook his head. "No! If I follow you than he'll kill both of us, and the man, if he's in there!"

"But you'll get killed if you stay!" Arthur protested, eyes wide.

"No I can take them!" Lancelot replied as they grew closer. "Just go!"

And Arthur charged inside the building, unaware of the spark that landed atop the wooden roof of the small home.

Lancelot held a dagger in each hand, pacing himself for the blows each rebel was likely to strike him down with. He would probably die tonight. His first night as a knight, cut down by mysterious rebels.

Ah well, at least he'd die defending his commander.

But the rebels never reached him.

The flames did first.

-0-0-0-TBC-0-0-0-

A/N: Thank you all for the reviews! Thanks to you all, I now know where this story is going, and how long it's going to be. Expect longer chapters from now on, as I add more details and the story line gets a bit more complicated.

Now to my thank yous':

SkyStrike26- Thanks! Lol, your not the only one who's having trouble picturing them younger! Thank you for reviewing!

Dmitchell1974- Thank you for your review! I'm glad you like the idea, and I'll try to update consistently.

VK- Thanks so much! I love your reviews, they really give me more confidence (not, as I'm not, that I need it...lol) and speed the story along! Thanks again!

More soon!

Anni


	7. Blaze of Fire

_"Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear"_ - Ambrose Redmoon

He had always, deep down, wondered how hot fire really was. How the searing, burning, flames could destroy so much, in so little time. And yet it was strange about fire, it could be used as perhaps the most dangerous weapon, and yet, it was also a source of light when it was dark, and warmth when it was cold.

But now it was neither pitch black, or cold out, and Lancelot had no wish to feel the heat of the fire. But he had backed into a trap, as he noticed now, when it was too late. And it seemed to him that he had two choices: throw himself head first into the battle raging before him, or back into the fire that would consume him.

He did not particularly find either choice appealing, for both would almost surely result in his death.

But Lancelot could not see any other options left to him, at least none that a sane man would take.

And then it dawned on him that Arthur and whoever the man was were inside the burning house, and his heart skipped a beat.

Gods, what was he supposed to do now?

He had never (ever!) in his life been in such a situation. Except...

Five years earlier.

Summer's heat covering the land like wool blanket.

Lighting striking the dry grasses.

A single spark.

One flash.

And suddenly the village (his village!) was playing host to the merciless blazes of the orange flames licking hungrily at the huts.

No!

He would not (could not!) think about that now. He would loose whatever wits, whatever courage he had managed to muster.

But he took a step back too far, and the flames seared his ankle. Crying out in anguish, Lancelot blinked hard so as to keep the tears from falling.

Screaming.

The cries of a small child.

His mother.

His sister.

In their hut. The same hut that had just caught fire.

People running past him, in slow motion it seemed. Smoke distorting his vision, the crackling of the fire like the evil laughter of death.

"NO!" Cried the eight year old Lancelot trying to get to his house, but being pushed back every second by a fleeing villager.

Fire.

So much fire.

But he would not think about that now! He had to keep his cool, and try to think of what to do.

Had it only been a minute since Arthur had left him? Surely it could not have been more. Why wasn't he dead?

Because, a voice in his head told him, you know what to do.

Nobody was coming after him anymore.

But how had that happened?

Moments ago they had been charging him full speed, weapons drawn, and ready! He himself was still holding the two daggers out before him!

And then he realized that it didn't matter anymore. That all that mattered was back beyond the flames of the town, and inside the burning house behind him.

Suddenly another option was opened to him, and Lancelot found it more difficult than the last, even. He could flee, escape, and run back to the other Sarmatians. On the way perhaps he could alert an officer, and besides, the battle would not last forever he could-

(abandon Arthur...)

-see if Tristan knew what to do. Galahad would be fine. He would be!

But than that would mean leaving Arthur to certain death. He couldn't do that, could he? But he hardly knew this Roman-

(leave another to die...)

-And he was just that, a Roman! What had the Romans ever done to Lancelot but kill members of his family, take him away from his home-

(already did it once...)

-And brought him here!

But he knew that he would never do that. He could never abandon someone who had meant only help to him, to certain death. Never.

And then the memories came back.

He was eight. Eight years old.

Not fast enough.

Not strong enough.

And it was so smoky. It hurt his throat, stung his nose. He couldn't see. Couldn't see anything but black, gray smoke.

He had tried (he had!) to get to his mother, to his sister. He had run as fast as he could and had gotten to the hut, but the door was locked (it was!) and the small hole to open it was engulfed in flames.

"I can't open it!" He had screamed. "Help!"

But nobody had helped him.

And then tears had distorted his vision even more than the smoke had and he did not see, only felt, a strong hand lift him. He was aware that he was being carried away, aware that he was crying and kicking to be put down.

"NO!" Lancelot shouted at himself. Stop thinking about that.

And without another glance at the battle he turned sharply on his heels and ran for the door of the house. The flames licked at his heels, but he dodged them, hurdling over the blazes.

He yanked open the singed door, and instantly his vision left him, stolen by the thick gray smoke. His chest was attacked by sharp and painful coughs, the smoke angrily enveloping him.

"ARTHUR!" He managed to choke. But no one answered so he kept walking. Hand stretched before him, as if to ward off flames.

"Lancelot?" Came a small voice, somewhere, somewhere in the house. He barely heard it, but Lancelot tried to follow it, squinting.

"Arthur?" He answered, coughing harder.

"Over here!" Arthur cried, and Lancelot could hear him coughing too. And then something was in front of him and Lancelot felt himself fall.

He could hardly see anything at all. He couldn't breath, couldn't hear, and couldn't smell, all he could do was blindly crawl. Crawl towards Arthur. Crawl towards his commander.

He knew that it was getting to him. The fire. It was like his own battle. He, Lancelot, versus the fire. And it was going to win if he didn't get to Arthur, and get out soon.

"Arthur! Where are you?" He cried out desperately. And he heard a sound to his right and followed it, hoping against hope that-

(he was carried away...)

-He wasn't too late.

"Lancelot!" Said Arthur, as they finally got to each other. Lancelot coughed, he couldn't stop, and took Arthur's hand to pull in too his feet.

"We need to get out of here!" Lancelot choked between coughs.

"He's not here!" Cried Arthur, distressed. "I looked and I looked, but I can't find him! I can't find him!"

"He's probably outside!" Lancelot answered, trying to be like Tristan, and stay calm.

And Lancelot was relieved when Arthur nodded (or, at least, Lancelot thought he did, but it was near impossible to see through the smoke.

Together they ducked down, and ran towards the exit. Towards the air, uncontaminated with the clutches and stink of fire.

Lancelot had pleaded (begged!) the men to go back and free his sister and mother.

Tears fell down his face like waterfalls.

He had left them to die!

He was nearly a man, his father had said.

A man didn't abandon his family!

So Lancelot had wept. He didn't know what else to do.

And so it was by some miracle that he felt his mother's arms around him. Some miracle that his baby sister was placed beside him. Some miracle that his father somehow enveloped all of them in one giant hug, calling Lancelot so brave.

Calling him brave.

He had tried to tell his parents that no (no!) he was not that brave, that he had let them carry him to safety. While his own family was left at the mercy of the fire. But they did not hear him.

Guilt, he had found out, was perhaps more powerful than fire. For it was not extinguished when the rain began to fall.

Or when the tears did.

"We're out!" Arthur exclaimed, shaking Lancelot from his memory. "We're free!"

And they were.

It seemed even, that the battle outside was slowly dieing down. That maybe, finally, perhaps the night would be over soon.

And that his life as knight would finally start.

But then Lancelot looked back, hearing the crash and realizing that the roof of the house had fallen in, and he realized that really, his old life had ended. The memories ended. They surely didn't matter now?

His new life had begun.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

A/N: Thank you so much to the reviewers! I wish I could thank you all individually, but I really have to go now! New chapter up tomorrow! More dialogue in that one, and I'll post the thanks from last chapter then.

Anni


	8. Really Starting

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews for chapters six and seven. Chapter seven was especially personal for me. My dad's been a firefighter my entire life, so I know at least a little bit about what it's like to go into a burning building.

Now onto the thank you's:

VK- You are so awesome! Thanks for the info about Lancelot and Gawain...And your welcome for my review, I really did love your story! Sandra- Thanks! I know, it is hard to picture them younger! 

_Evenstar-Mor2004- Rome...And the whole point is to keep you reading! Thanks!_

_WildRose- Thanks, and what you said made sense. That's what cool about Lancelot._

Camreyn- Arthur and Lancelot do have a lot in common, as they will come to realize. Gabrieal and Tristan are complete opposite, lol, you're right. Thanks!

**Now on to the story...**

They ran back to where they had left the others, happy to leave the fires behind.

"Lancelot, thank you." Arthur said after minutes of silence.

Lancelot just shrugged, looking down into his horse's mane.

"You were really brave," the Roman continued. "I never expected you to do that. I don't know if I would have..."

"Yes, you would've." Said Lancelot suddenly. "I knew you would have done the same for me. You risked your life for Galahad, and you barely know him."

Arthur sighed. "I have fifteen years to get to know him better, than."

"We all do." Said Lancelot, managing a small smile.

"Yeah."

And they rode on in silence until they reached the site where they had left Galahad and the Sarmatians.

The sight before them made Lancelot freeze in the saddle.

No one was there.

Arthur seemed equally shocked, and he cantered over to the area. "This is the place, right?"

Lancelot nodded. "Or near to it. But I can't see anyone even around here."

"Where are they all?" Arthur asked the obvious.

"I don't know." Answered Lancelot, mystified.

The sky was black, and the only light came from the moon.

"Lancelot!"

He turned sharply in the saddle at the cry of his name, his mind dimly registering the voice as belonging to Gawain.

Arthur noticed Lancelot reaction, and quickly started to canter towards the sound of the voice, Lancelot right behind him.

The reached where Gawain stood, and both Lancelot and Arthur quickly dismounted to meet him.

"Gods," Gawain marveled, taking in Lancelot's appearance. "You're alive."

Lancelot nodded. "Galahad?"

"He's going to be fine," Gawain grinned. "He's over in his cabin over there." He pointed behind him a little bit.

But Arthur frowned. "Did you move him?"

Gawain shook his head. "Not us, no. Some man did. He came after you left, said he knew healing. Tristan trusted him, and so we followed him."

Now it was Lancelot's turn to frown. "Did he say his name?"

"No."

Lancelot turned to Arthur, who was chewing his lip distractedly.

"Who...?" The Sarmatian urged the Roman into answering the unspoken question.

"Merlin!" Arthur suddenly spoke, anger flashing in his eyes.

Lancelot blinked.

"I've seen him twice before." Arthur spoke, his voice shaking, fists clenched. "Once when I was younger, in the forest. He told me his name, and then disappeared. And then-"Arthur blinked hard. "Earlier tonight."

Lancelot did not see or understand why Arthur was so mad at the mention of Merlin's name.

"It was him!" Arthur suddenly shouted.

Gawain took a step back from Arthur, getting a strange look on his face; as if he thought Arthur had suddenly sprouted a second head.

"What?" Lancelot asked hesitantly.

"He did it!" Arthur screamed, tears running down his face. "HE KILLED MY MOTHER!"

And neither Lancelot nor Gawain asked him anymore.

-o-o-o-o-o-Two Months Later-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"You got me!"

Lancelot laughed, his black curls lifted by the wind. "It is hardly my fault," he chuckled. "That I am a better swordsman."

Arthur groaned in mock annoyance. "More like a better faker. Besides, you have a one sword advantage to me. I never should have given you that other dagger."

Lancelot rolled his eyes. "And left me to suffer an agonizing fate while you ran into a burning building to fetch a man who wasn't even there?"

"Well at least we'd be free of you then." Arthur retorted.

It was funny, Lancelot thought, how quick friendships form. And how small things—like the matter of saving Galahad's life—could ignite such a brotherhood that the Sarmatians and their commander had seemed to form.

As young as they were, training had started.

It never would end.

"I, for one, am appalled that a Roman commander, such as yourself," said Lancelot, feigning disbelief. "Would stoop to such a level as _jealousy_!"

Arthur laughed. "Jealous of an arrogant easterner as yourself? I think not, Sir Lancelot."

"Careful, Bors, or Dagonet'll claim one of your fingers..." Gawain called tauntingly from behind Arthur.

The day was young still, not yet mid day. And the birds sang to each other from their perches in the few trees. The grass was as green as green could manage to be, and the sun shone-determined to heat the land.

"Ha!" Bors shouted. "I'll be a dead man first!"

And as his own form of defense, Dagonet slashes his sword over Bors, who managed just in the nick of time to deflect it.

"Anyone looking would be hard put to call us knights..." Tristan remarked, smiling next to another Sarmatian who looked oddly like him.

"Gods hope we see a battle before our hair turns gray." Gabrieal complained, bringing his sword down upon an old tree stump.

"We should." Arthur answered. "There are rumors of Saxons to the west. There'll be a battle to fight if they should meet us."

"Good," said Gawain. "Some real competition at last."

Galahad kicked him. "Without me watching your back, you'd be dead as soon as the first arrow's shot. Most likely it'll be Tristan's."

Everyone laughed, even Gawain, who tried to look outraged, but failed quite miserably. Instead, he cuffed Galahad around the head.

Arthur looked behind at the town. "Come on, Knights, time for a meal."

"S'bout time." Bors said loudly, as usual. "You Romans seem to procrastinate as long as ya can before eating."

"Here here!" Someone agreed.

And they had no idea that the next time they would sleep, there would be less than thirty-seven Sarmatian knights opening their eyes.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-TBC-0-0-0-0-0


	9. Among Us

It had been two years.

Two years of triumph. Of victory.

Two years filled with pain and blood and sweat and tears and a whole lot of memories that Lancelot never wanted to remember for the rest of his days.

There were now less of them.

There were too many dead.

But, Lancelot thought, there were still too many alive.

"We ride 'till dawn." Arthur shouted above the din of his knights.

And he had grown, too. They all had.

"_What_?" Somebody shouted from behind Lancelot. "We've been riding _all day_ already! What are you trying to do, _kill us_ before we even reach _battle_?"

It was Gabrieal.

For years Lancelot had known the headstrong, arrogant, reckless little tramp with his light brown wavy hair, and his piercing green eyes that more often shone with bitterness and anger than they did with life. Gabrieal was a loner. But not by choice, like Tristan. Gabrieal seemed to want to fit in with his fellow knights, but they would not accept him, and he would not accept them.

Arthur turned his horse around abruptly, and only Lancelot's quick reflexes stopped his horse from starting in fear. The Sarmatian could see the fury in the Roman's eyes, but-as usual-it was gone in an instant.

Arthur trotted up towards Gabrieal's black mount, and looked him in the eye.

"Good men," he started, his voice thick with conviction and determination that Lancelot marveled at. "Good men have died beside you! Good men have bled from their wounds _beside you_! Good men, _my men_! Have _died_ for this land! _My land_! Do you _honestly think_ that I choose to honor them by murdering their own _kin_?"

Gabrieal stared defiantly back, never blinking.

"Good men have died! Yes, they have! They've died because of _you_! _You _and your _country_! If it wasn't for Rome, then we would all be back home, and _free_!" Gabrieal's voice shook with emotion. The other knights had stopped riding, quietly watching commander and knight. "Every knight here knows it! Every man you lead, Arthur, knows that you care not of _them_! Not of _their_ lives! But the benefit that _Rome _will receive! If I am the only one brave enough to speak the truth, then _so be it_! But I _will not_ hear you speak to me as if I have some _duty_ to Rome! Because I _did not_, I _do not_, and I _never will_!"

It was silent.

Arthur looked back at Gabrieal, a mixture of shock, shame, and anger on his face. And Gabrieal looked back at him, his face a portrait of pure, and utter fury. It was almost scary.

And then suddenly Arthur turned and his horse took its place back at the front of the line.

They began to walk again.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Later that night, Lancelot sat by the fire with Galahad and Tristan. They didn't speak, only stared at the flames.

The crickets chirped from somewhere far away, and the chilly air was so quiet, it was too loud, and Lancelot wanted to scream out in frustration.

"He was right." Galahad whispered suddenly. The sound of his voice cut the air like a knife through butter.

"What?" Lancelot replied, frowning at his comrade.

Galahad dropped his gaze to the crackling blaze again. And it was awhile before he spoke again.

"Gabrieal. What he said today on the trail. He was right."

Lancelot suddenly wished the silence was back, for the words he had just heard were so loud. It was deafening.

He didn't remember standing up, didn't remember crossing the campsite to Galahad, but suddenly he was standing there before the other knight.

And one of his swords was drawn.

"_How dare you_!" Lancelot demanded angrily, eyes narrowed, their black color glittering dangerously.

Galahad looked at the sword in Lancelot's hand, and then looked into his eyes, shock evident on his face.

But Tristan had also noticed, and was there in an instant. He yanked Lancelot away and pushed him back.

"Put it away."

But Lancelot remembered the look on Arthur's face. The shame. It was the first time he had ever seen it there. And then to think (to think!) that _Galahad_ actually _agreed_ with _Gabrieal_! The bastard!

"_Lancelot_! Put it down."

He lowered the sword.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Gabrieal swore in every language he had ever learned, cussing to every holy figure he had ever head trace of.

Because it was _not fair_! _Nothing was_!

And it served Arthur right to be humiliated in front of his men! Served him _right_! It was his fault! The Romans' fault! _Everyone's fault_!

And he kicked as hard as he could at a fallen log.

Swearing again as sharp pain exploded near his toe, Gabrieal couldn't help but chuckle at the dead log.

It was a dark laugh. An angry laugh. One that had been used far to little, and now was being forced to change into something alien.

Because Gabrieal laughed at the dead log.

It had once been a great tree.

Probably taller than the others.

Heck, this tree was never even an acorn. No. That'd be _far_ too ordinary for _this _ tree.

But it had fallen.

Fallen like everything does.

Crashed to the forest floor, leaves flying everywhere. The were free for now, but they'd soon be dead too, Gabrieal laughed again. They couldn't survive without all the things the tree had provided.

And then by the light of the almost full moon, where even the light of the stars did not reach him through the thick canopy of leaves,

Gabrieal laughed again.

He was laughing at everything.

For the home that he'd never known. For the father who had beat him. For the mother who had called him worthless. For the family that had hated him. For all the people he had tried to fit in with, who left him behind.

Because he _was _worthless.

In their eyes.

But one day he'd show them. _All _of them!

And then he laughed.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The only person who saw the Saxons following them at a distance, arrows raised, would not go tell Arthur.

Because the only person who saw the Saxons, was dead the moment they realized who was following.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-TBC-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

_I am so incredibly sorry for the wait_! PLEASE forgive me! I was lazy, forgetful, and had an awful case of writer's block.

I hope I am forgiven...And how's this: I'll now tell you the day the next chapter will be posted.

Next Chapter: April 15th.

A HUGE thanks to all my reviewers! I hope I have pleased you in some small way.


	10. To Fall So Far

"Separate we come, and separate we go, And this be it known, is all that we know."-Conrad Aiken

The darkness was slowly fading into the light of the morning, and Arthur and his knights were beginning to wake.

The camp was quiet, as every man knew that he would face battle that day. Every man could sense something in the air, and he knew that it would be fruitless to ignore the knowing in his heart.

So, side by side, the knights shrugged into silver armor, stroking bows and sharpening swords. Horses were made ready, saddles strapped and girths tightened.

Lancelot was the first one done. He had gotten up earliest, before the stars had begun to fade.

He leaned against a tree, watching Tristan and Gawain prepare. Tristan was silent as usual, examining his bow critically. Gawain, however, seemed cheerful, humming a Sarmatian folk tune under his breath, and polishing his armor contentedly.

"You seem happy." Stated Bors, lumbering over and handing Lancelot his helmet. Lancelot took it, still watching Gawain.

"I see no reason not to be." Answered Gawain, strapping his sword to his belt, tightening it, and looking at Bors.

"You aren't scared, then?" Bors smirked.

Gawain returned the grin. "I'm not afraid of battle, no. It's more of what comes after that frightens me."

Bors chuckled at that, but Lancelot frowned. He felt the same way.

Walking away from his friends, Lancelot sighed as he neared the edge of the woods. He stood there for awhile, flipping one of his swords thoughtlessly.

"So how is it that you're Arthur's best friend?"

Lancelot started, missing his sword as it clattered soundlessly to the grassy ground. He swore as he retrieved it, matching the sour voice to a name.

Gabrieal.

"What do you want?" Lancelot snapped bitterly.

Gabrieal laughed humorlessly, stepping out of the trees. "Who said I wanted anything?"

But Lancelot shook his head. "I'm serious, Gabrieal."

"Indeed." The other Sarmatian rolled his eyes.

Lancelot angrily turned away from him, walking back towards camp.

He was both relieved and annoyed that Gabrieal did not follow him. Lancelot didn't understand him, nor did he care to. Gabrieal was just some angry oddball who wanted revenge on something Lancelot knew nothing about.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Arthur found him that morning.

He knew that he would have to get used to it, his knights' deaths.

But he couldn't.

Not yet.

Because he had cared about Galaghway, and the others he had lost. He hadn't wanted them dead! He felt guilty, too, about it all. Like it was his fault, even though he knew that it wasn't.

To make matters worse, they would face battle in a few hours time, and God only _knew_ how many more knights would meet their end.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

It only took them forty minutes to find battle.

And it would have taken them even less if they had knew that the enemy was following them, and had been for some time now.

Both armies charged, shouts piercing the once quiet air, and frightening flocks of birds from the trees.

Lancelot cleared his mind of anything but what to do in the next ten seconds. It was a strategy he had developed that had saved his life countless times before.

He did not think about the lives he was ending with his swords.

But Gabrieal did.

It bothered the others, he knew. But Gabrieal also knew that if they didn't win, they would loose, and loosing would not happen!

So he fought hard.

His sword became his anger and the Saxons became the pain in his life. He had to hurt it to make everything better. He had to!

The fighting seemed to last an eternity, swords clashing together like some kind of out of tune music, the shouts of those cut down disturbing and distracting to the knights of both sides.

But it ended, as everything does.

And Gawain swallowed heavily, panting as he lowered his axe and closed his eyes. Now he was afraid.

Lancelot replaced his swords behind his head again, turning and blowing out his breath like one long sigh.

Slowly the survivors walked, and congregated together in the middle. But the fallen did not rise. They did not smile in relief as their friend was spotted. They did not put away their weapon and feel grateful for their victory.

And they never would again.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

That night was solemn and sad.

Lancelot could not take the grief lingering in the air, and instead sought solitude by a rippling, winding river, illuminated in the moonlight.

But he was not alone long.

He heard Gabrieal this time, fists clenching, preparing himself for some kind of mouth off from the other knight.

"Why don't you go away?" Lancelot demanded.

"Why don't you?" Gabrieal countered, anger evident in his voice. "As a hero you would not find it difficult to have company."

Lancelot turned to him, and that was when he noticed: Gabrieal was wearing his pack.

"Where are you going?" Lancelot asked, confused.

"Anywhere but here."

"_What_? You can't just _leave_!" Lancelot protested.

"I can't stay either!"

Gabrieal's voice suddenly had a slight desperate note to the irate tone, and he spoke louder. "I know I am not wanted! I was not in Sarmatia, either! You all fight for the freedom you'll have in thirteen more years. But I won't have that freedom! Where will I go? Back to my tribe? They banished me years ago. Do I stay here in Rome? No. _I don't belong anywhere_! I am fighting for a place, a cause, that I _hate_! I risk my life each battle for something I would rather _not_ happen! You, Lancelot, fight for peace and freedom. But I will never have either! I know not where my life will go, but I do know that for sure!"

Lancelot was speechless.

There was an uneasy silence between the two, neither knight speaking, each too immersed in his thoughts to communicate at all

And then Gabrieal shook his head, and began to walk away. But by now, Lancelot had found his voice.

"Where are you going?" He shouted after him, repeating the question, _sure_ that Gabrieal did indeed know the answer.

Gabrieal paused for a moment, then slowly turned towards Lancelot. "To find the Saxons."

And Lancelot watched him disappear. Unable to grasp the fact that they had all been betrayed by the one they all had hated.

He ran to tell Arthur.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-TBC-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Evenstar-mor2004: Ok, I told you, hehe. Still think he's crazy? Thanks for reviewing:)

Camlann- It is sad that Gabrieal has only bitterness to laugh about. And you're right about him still having some trouble to cause... Thanks for reviewing:)

Irishfire- Yay! A new reviewer! I'm very glad that you're enjoying this! Maybe Gabrieal should listen to you. :)

MissBubbles- Yes, poor Gabrieal. Thank you, and glad you're enjoying this:)

Camreyn- Interesting opinion about Gabrieal, hehe. He is a bit scary, isn't he? Thanks for reviewing:)

tHe vOiCe WiThiN- I'm going to have to read more about that story...Any resemblance between Gabrieal and Mordred is completely coincidental, but that is interesting how similar they seem to be. Gabrieal is very intent on always making his feelings heard. Thanks for your lovely reviews:)


	11. Between Two Sides

"Arthur!"

Lancelot charged through the camp, pushing past anything in his way. His head was still buzzing from what he had just found out. But instead of slowing him down, it willed him on, giving him one goal: tell Arthur.

He finally reached the tent where his commander was most likely looking over maps, and ran inside. He gasped for breath upon seeing Arthur, intent on telling him the news as quickly and as accurate as possible.

Arthur's face held surprise on Lancelot's sudden entrance, and the Roman quickly hurried to his second's side.

"Lancelot!" Arthur said, putting down a map of western Rome. "What happened? Are you alright?"

Lancelot nodded, trying desperately to catch his breath. "Yes! Yes I'm fine. But Arthur-it's Gabrieal-."

Arthur's face went from concern to displeasure at the announcement of his knight's name. But Lancelot ignored Arthur's reaction, plowing on with his story.

"Arthur, he's gone!"

"Gone? As in dead? _How_? _What_?" Arthur interrupted urgently.

"_No_, no!" Lancelot shook his head harshly. "He's just….left! To find the Saxons! Not five minutes ago, we were at the edge of the woods and-,"

"To find the Saxons?" Arthur frowned deeply, as he studied Lancelot. "He's gone to find them? _Why_? He can't be trying to defeat them _himself_? Why, that _arrogant_-,"

"Arthur I do not think he means to _defeat_ them!" Lancelot cut in, looking grim and solemn.

"I think he means to join them."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Gabrieal did not know where the enemy had gone off to.

_Stop that_, he told himself sternly. _They're not the enemy_. Not that he knew who _was_. He had yet to understand who The Enemy was. Arthur and the other Sarmatians spoke of the Saxons and the Woads as the enemy. But Gabrieal did not agree. He had many enemies. Many he did not like. Many he wanted gone.

The Saxons wanted control of Rome. But what did Gabrieal care? The Saxons could have Rome. They could have Briton! They could have the world and he would not give a sword about it!

Then what _did_ he care about?

He kept walking, oblivious to anything but his own gloomy thoughts. _You don't care about anything_, a sly voice in his head said. His eyes blazed with a sudden surge of anger, and he felt like breaking something.

Crushing a helpless twig in his hand, he found that it did little to comfort him. He let the pieces fall to the ground.

He cared about no one. He had once. Not too long ago. They had been best friends, and there was no one who had understood Gabrieal as well as Adrean had. In battle, they had been invincible as a team. Or so Gabrieal had thought. They never strayed far from each other, no matter what.

Loyalty had always been important to Adrean and-

(_Loyalty, Gabrieal, is the world's weapon_)

-He had always been loyal to Gabrieal.

But that day, as they were waiting for the Woads to appear, so that they could fight against them, Adrean had said something strange.

"Maybe we should change our battle strategy." He had commented softly, and only Gabrieal had heard him.

"What do you mean?" Gabrieal had asked, puzzled.

"You know, fight separately." Adrean had answered a strange look in his eyes. Like he was seeing something far away, and was disturbed by it.

"What? No. No, we've never lost together! Why change?" Gabrieal had protested, his voice raising as it always did.

"You need to learn to accept change, Gabrieal." Adrean said, sighing. "I think that it is time we try a new method."

But Gabrieal still had not agreed. "But suppose something goes wrong! Suppose it doesn't work and one of us ends up on the wrong side of a blade!"

Adrean had looked directly into Gabrieal's eyes, and it made Gabrieal feel uncomfortable, and he squirmed in his saddle. "Life is made of risks, Gabrieal. It's only a matter of whether we choose to take them or not."

They had split up that battle. Fought separately. And Gabrieal hadn't liked it one bit.

And then came the battle's end.

Adrean had not walked among the survivors.

Gabrieal furiously blinked against his tears and began to run faster and faster until he was sprinting. Sprinting to find an army that wanted him dead. Sprinting away from an army that thought him worthless. He was between sides. He belonged on neither.

And then he caught sight of the Saxons' camp, and never in his life had he felt this way before.

Gabrieal had nothing more to loose, and everything to gain. Perhaps it was this that caused him to drop his pack, and run down the hill and straight into the camp. He would make the Saxons listen to him, and if they killed him in the process, at least he would die trying.

Taking a deep breath, Gabrieal walked among the Saxons.

-0-0-0-0-TBC-0-0-0-0-

A/N: Just one quick thing before the review thanks: I've gotten some statements about certain characters being similar to other characters of the Arthurian legends and other stories, and let me just say that any resemblances between these characters and the characters of legend is purely coincidental. All the traits have come from my own mind, I can promise you this. I'm very honored that they are similar to greater characters, but please know that I did not base them on anyone else's ideas.

Now on to the thank you's:

Irishfire- Thank you, I'm glad you liked Gawain's little speech! It is kind of what war is. Thanks for reviewing:)

MissBubbles- You're very clever! I can't reveal any future plots, even though I want to! Thanks for reviewing:)

tHe vOiCe WiThiN- Aaah! I'm going to have to read this legend! I promise promise promise that I did not base Gabrieal's character on Mordred! But I'm very glad you like him so far! Thanks for reviewing:)

Camreyn- I hope I answered your question. I do intend on writing less of the scenes from now on, however since I need to keep flashing from Lancelot and Arthur and the other knights, and then to Gabrieal and the Saxons, some of the scene/chunking is necessary. I hope you don't find this too annoying. I did not name Gabrieal after the Archangel (hence the different spelling, lol), I actually really like that name. I repeat, all similarities are coincidental! Thanks for reviewing:)

Evenstar-mor2004- Lol, the crazy traitor Gabrieal...Kinda has a ring to it...Lol, thanks for reviewing:)


	12. Betrayed

Gabrieal silently hoped that he would not be noticed. But then at the same time, he silently hoped that he _would_.

But it was several minutes of him slowly, hesitantly, walking around. Meandering through overturned pots, and flapping tents. Occasionally looking closely at a Saxon, only to quickly look away so as not to be seen.

He was being a coward, and he knew it. Time to make his presence known!

"Hey, you!" Gabrieal called to the nearest Saxon: a big, ugly looking brute with scraggly black hair and mean glittering eyes.

The Saxon stood at an alarmingly fast pace; faster than Gabrieal had expected. "Who r'you?" He shouted angrily.

Suddenly it seemed as if the entire army was upon him, shouting, and calling, and shoving...Gabrieal looked about himself anxiously. _What_ had he gotten himself into _this_ time?

"'E's a knight!" One of them said loudly, and Gabrieal doubted that he was capable of any other pitch.

"What's a knight doin' 'round 'ere?" Someone argued forcefully.

"'E's a spy!"

"Yeah! Yeah thas' ri'! Isn't it boy!" The Saxon Gabrieal had first spoken too pushed him hard, and Gabrieal fell painfully to the ground.

"NO!" The Sarmatian shouted, pushing himself off the soil. "I am NOT a spy! I bring you information about the battle plans and whereabouts of Arthur and his knights! Information you will not survive without!"

A murmur rang through the army with Gabrieal's words. Gabrieal just stood there, not blinking, and hoping against hope that he would be believed.

"How do we know you're not lyin'?" The first Saxon asked slyly.

"Because you'll believe me when I tell you that the knights and Arthur will be at your camp tonight at sundown. When you see them, you'll know I wasn't lying."

"Yeah?" The first Saxon challenged menacingly.

"Yeah!" Gabrieal replied defiantly, making fierce eye contact.

"Thas' not for us to decide." The Saxon grunted, grabbing Gabrieal by the scruff of his neck, and dragging him towards the largest tent.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"Knights!" Arthur shouted above the din of camp.

Instantly, all was quiet and all attention was on Arthur, and Lancelot who stood beside him.

"We have been betrayed." Said Arthur bluntly. An angry murmur broke out, each knight looking around as if to accuse someone.

"By who?" Galahad asked, frowning deeply.

"Gabrieal." Stated Arthur, and the knights groaned.

"What are we going to do? Go after him?" Gawain shouted to Arthur.

"Are you _insane_?" Another knight hissed, looking appalled.

"I say we forget about him!" Bors yelled, and many shouted in agreement.

"How much does he know, Arthur?" Tristan asked softly.

Arthur shook his head. "I do not know."

Lancelot looked sharply at Arthur. "Do you think he could have reached them by now?"

Once again the Roman shook his head. "I say we do not risk it."

Tristan shot him a side glance. "You mean to continue with your plans, then?"

Arthur nodded. "Yes. Prepare what you need." He said to Tristan, then turned his attention to the wildly talking knights. "We ride for the Saxons at sundown!"

-0-0-0-0-0-0-TBC-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Longer chapter next time!

Now on to the thanks:

VK- I hope Gabrieal knows too, lol. He didn't seem to take the advice the way it was meant...Thanks for reviewing:)

Evenstar-mor2004- Lol, can't tell you anything! Thanks for reviewing:)

Camreyn- Good questions! Hope you find out soon! Thanks for reviewing:)


	13. The Hunted and the Hunter

Gabrieal had never felt this way in his life.

He had always been independent. His own person. He looked out for himself, and didn't worry about anyone else. That was the way it was, and that was the way it was always going to be.

Then why was he finding himself almost wishing that Arthur and Lancelot _wouldn't_ follow through with their plans?

"S'yer Sarmatian, eh?"

Gabrieal instantly snapped to attention. Here he was, standing before the leader of the Saxons-the fearless Cerdic whom Arthur loathed. It gave him grim satisfaction to stand before this powerful man.

"Yes."

"And you know information about Arthur?"

"Yes." Gabrieal thought it best not to say too much.

"Well. Tell me some of it."

This puzzled Gabrieal. He was expecting another grunting answer-which seemed to be Cerdic's favorite way of speaking.

When Gabrieal hesitated, Cerdic seemed to grow more angry.

"Well? You say you have information I would want to know; but what good is it to me if you will not tell me?"

"Arthur and his knights ride for _your_ camp sundown tonight. They mean to finnish you off, before you can find them first." Gabrieal answered quickly.

Cerdic sat back in his seat, mouth chewing around some kind of bread. His beady blue eyes studied Gabrieal intently, and the Sarmatian had to work hard not to squirm under the penetrating gaze.

"If I said I believed you..." Cerdic started after a few minutes, apparently feeling no need to hurry. And why should he? Gabrieal mused. He had all the time he wanted, no one would dare go against him.

"...Would you be willing to fight...?"

Gabrieal almost laughed-what an outrageous question! "Of course!" He would fight. He'd been fighting all his life.

Cerdic did not react to Gabrieal reply. He only turned to another Saxon to his right.

"Raewald. Send him with Cynric. Have 'em meet Arthur half way. They shouldn't need any more men than they already have."

The other Saxon nodded, grabbing Gabrieal's shirt.

"Yer comin' with me."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"Arthur I have a bad feeling about this."

The Roman commander didn't slow his trotting pace, and neither did the knights galloping, stretching behind him in a long, snaking line.

But Tristan did not mind talking at the quick pace. It did not matter as long as he got his point across.

"Why?" Arthur replied, distractedly.

"What if Gabrieal knew of our plan? Could he not tell the Saxons we were coming?"

"Tristan," said Arthur bracingly. "I do not think Gabrieal knew as much as you give him credit for."

But the Sarmatian was not convinced, and dropped back to ride next to Lancelot with a frown on his face.

"I can't believe he would do this." Lancelot muttered angrily, looking ahead past Arthur. Lancelot's dark eyes were narrowed dangerously, and though he rode as skillfully as ever, his back was stiff and his hands were clamped into tight fists. Tristan sighed.

"Talking about it does nothing." Said Tristan wisely, looking sideways at Lancelot.

"Neither does riding straight into a trap." Lancelot responded, and Tristan rose his eyebrows. Lancelot chuckled darkly upon seeing the other knight's reaction. "I know as well as you do that Gabrieal knew we were coming."

"Why not tell Arthur?" Tristan softly suggested, scanning the skies.

Lancelot waved it off. "He knows too. I think sometimes he uses battle as a way to vent. He is angry with Gabrieal. We all are. So he rides to fight against the source of his anger and gets us into another mess."

Tristan focused on the path in front of him. "I do not think Arthur would risk his knights' lives to vent his own feelings."

"Maybe not." Answered Lancelot, his voice tense. "But all the same, he plans an ambush he knows is expected. How do you explain that?"

"I would think you of all people would know, Lancelot."

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"Sundown."

Gabrieal nearly rolled his eyes. He could _see_ that. With his standing position next to Cerdic's son Cynric, Gabrieal had the distinct impression that the Saxon thought him to be blind, deaf, and incredibly idiotic.

"Perhaps you care to explain why your friends aren't here." Cynric said airily. Gabrieal liked him better than his father, but he was still a Saxon, meaning the Sarmatian could not trust him. Not yet.

"They aren't my friends." Gabrieal muttered.

"You rode with them for years, did you not?"

"Doesn't mean I wanted to."

Cynric chuckled lowly. "Ah, that's right. You're a Sarmatian slave. A knight to the Roman government until at which time your freedom is granted."

Gabrieal was silent.

"Do you not want your freedom? Surely you aren't _that_ impatient. You only have six more years. Why betray them _now_?"

Gabrieal fought with himself not to loose control. _Stay calm_, he told himself. And for once, he obeyed.

"It is...complicated..." He answered.

Cynric grinned again. "I see."

"Captain!"

Cynric looked up sharply. "What is it?"

The Saxon called Raewald panted quickly. "The Roman, sir! He has come!"

And Gabrieal suddenly wished he was blind, and deaf, and too idiotic to understand what could happen next.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The two armies met almost directly after Cynric was informed of Arthur's entrance. Sword clashed against sword and arrows pierced through the air-Filling the woods with merciless whistling sounds.

Galahad fought beside Gawain with a will that he was sure could topple any tree. Maybe it was his age, but Galahad could scarcely believe Gabrieal's betrayal! How _dare_ he! And to choose the _Saxons_ over the _Romans_? Galahad himself disliked Rome and its leaders, but he would _never_ choose the primitive malice of the _Saxons_!

But still he fought.

Gawain was angry with Gabrieal, but he was at the same time quite relieved to be rid of the nuisance. Gawain wanted only to end the pathetic life of the other Sarmatian, and forget he ever existed. The only thing that troubled Gawain, was the way Lancelot seemed to be taking it.

Bors and Dagonet fought near each other as always. Bors didn't much care about Gabrieal. He had always found the younger knight to be a whining scamp who was the social reject of the knights. The fact that Gabrieal had betrayed them didn't exactly weigh heavily on Bors's mind. They just had to finish him off tonight was all. In truth, Dagonet much agreed with Bors. He personally did not want much to do with Gabrieal, but he had always tried to be at least decent towards him. Dagonet figured that people like Gabrieal were everywhere, and the world would be better if they simply gave them their space.

Arthur fought by Lancelot, swinging his heavy sword down upon the Saxons with an even heavier heart. He felt a bit guilty that he had let this happen. As a commander, was he not entitled to treating each knight with respect and dignity? He certainly had not given Gabrieal either of those things. And now it seemed that Gabrieal would die tonight. Whether by his sword or the swords of his knights-it did not seem to matter much.

Tristan stood aside from the other knights. He shot his arrows effortlessly as usual, a calm look of contentment on his face. Inside, Tristan knew that Gabrieal would not find the acceptance he so wanted with the Saxons. True, he would not find it with his fellow Sarmatians and Arthur, but Gabrieal had been wrong to leave them. Sometimes Tristan felt a great rift between himself and the other knights, but he was used to it. He did not want their acceptance, only their respect. And perhaps friendship. But Tristan knew that Gabrieal was not like him. Gabrieal wanted something else, something more.

And so the battle raged on. The sixteen remaining knights and their Roman commander against the mighty Saxon army.

It was midnight when the smoke finally cleared.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Gawain was out of breath, but he stood up as quickly as he could, yanking his ax out of the head of a Saxon. Shaking his head of his weariness, he hurried to find Arthur and the others. He found them scattered about, Bors and Dagonet, Tristan and (his heart relaxed somewhat) Galahad.

"Did you see him?" Bors asked him as soon as Gawain ambled over.

"Who?"

"Gabrieal!" Galahad said, faking exasperation. "None of us did. We don't think he fought."

"Bloody coward." Bors grunted.

"Were you looking for him the entire battle?" Tristan asked lightly, examining his bow as if they weren't standing over hundreds of dead bodies.

"And how was I supposed to do that and fight at the same time?" Bors retorted.

"Maybe you missed him, then." Tristan shrugged.

Bors rolled his eyes.

"Where's Arthur?" Dagnonet asked.

"And Lancelot." Gawain noticed, frowning.

The rest of the knights followed them in search of the others, hoping to any God that they would not find them among the bodies.

"There's Arthur!" Galahad shouted suddenly.

The knights sprinted towards their commander, who knelt on the ground. He never looked their way, but his voice was anxious and urgent.

"Arthur! What is it?" Bors exclaimed coming to a stop.

But Gawain knew. Lancelot lay on the ground, his eyes open, but glazed and clouded. His breathes were shallow and quick.

"It's Lancelot!" Arthur cried. "Tristan-it was an arrow, I pulled it out, but I fear it was poisoned..."

Tristan pushed past his fellow knights and knelt next to Arthur and Lancelot. His eyes scanned the bleeding wound on Lancelot's shoulder rapidly.

"Too soon to tell." He murmured. "We need to get him back to the wall."

Arthur nodded, and with Dagonet's help he lifted Lancelot onto Arthur's horse. Mounting quickly, Arthur shouted orders for his knights to follow him as fast as they could ride safely.

Gawain obeyed instantly, fearing for Lancelot's life. He quickly found his horse not far away, and mounted effortlessly. Looking around for Galahad, he grew alert when he did not see him.

"Galahad!" Gawain warned loudly. How dare he hold them all up!

And that's when he saw him.

Two figures at the edge of the forest.

The moonlight illuminated the faces. The one who held the weapon, the hunter. And the one who could not run, the hunted.

The knights gasped audibly, even Arthur turned to look in his worried haste.

But Gawain knew how it would end. Galahad was the hunter.

But sometimes the hunted still wins.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-TBC-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Sorry for the wait! Thanks for all the nice reviews! New chapter posted either tomorrow or the next day!


	14. Dagger Left Behind

Gabrieal cursed under his breath. No no no no _no _! He wasn't supposed to be _found_! And on top of that, _cornered!_ If his situation had been less dire, he would have groaned audibly. But unfortunately for him, Gabrieal had been backed into a corner, with Galahad pointing a bow with a loaded arrow into his face.

"HOW DARE YOU!" Galahad screamed, his eyes like a cat's: slits of dark fury. His hands shook with emotion, but he held the bow steady.

"YOU MURDEROUS BLOODY TRAITOR!" Galahad seemed to loose all self control, and it showed. "YOU RUN AWAY TO THE BLOODY SAXONS AND BLOODY BETRAY US! I BET IT WAS YOU WHO SHOT LANCELOT!"

Gabrieal look sharply to the side. It was true. Lancelot _had_ been shot. But he hadn't done it! He had only been _watching_! But he would have. Wouldn't he?

"BLOODY SAY SOMETHING!" Galahad demanded furiously.

But Gabrieal could not.

"Galahad!" Gawain's shout tore impatiently through the still air, and every knight watching cringed. They all had briefly registered the absence of Arthur.

"Galahad, let him be! He's not worth it!" Dagonet shouted, stepping forward.

"Let him rot with the other Saxons." Bors declared angrily.

Tristan was silent.

Gabrieal was finding his situation-though certainly dangerous-more and more humorous. "_He's not worth it dear Galahad_!" He mocked, laughing. His arrogance shone through like the moon's light, now, and he didn't try to mask it.

Underneath his jerkin, in a small pocket none but himself knew about, Gabrieal hand clutched a dagger.

"He betrayed all of us, and nearly killed Lancelot! He's unarmed and outnumbered and I will NOT let him go so easily!" Galahad protested.

The young Sarmatian stepped forward with his bow and arrow. "I never liked you." He said, voice shaking. "I always thought you were a good for nothing scamp. A bloody, whining, little SCAMP! And I was bloody RIGHT! You belong with these ugly brutes. But you don't even deserve THAT! Because of you all of us nearly got killed! One of us might still! And it's all because of you! I WILL KILL YOU!" Galahad took another step forward, pulling the bow back and-

"NO!" It was Tristan. He sprung to Galahad's side and lowered his arm. "No, Galahad. Do not murder one of your kind."

"SHUT UP AND GO AWAY!" Galahad said, sounding more like a thirteen year old than a seventeen year old knight. "I am old enough to make my own choices!"

"But apparently not old enough to know anything about the consequences!" Tristan said loudly and forcefully.

"He was going to kill ALL OF US! We're his kind!" Galahad shouted.

"He was wrong! But so are you!" Said Tristan.

Galahad opened his mouth to protest and Gabrieal seized the opportunity. Leaping forward, he swiftly pulled out his dagger, pinning Galahad and aiming it directly at his throat.

"NO!" Gawain shouted. Tristan moved forward but Gabrieal spoke first.

"If any of you move any closer, than I will kill him." He spoke with such a calm certainty, it chilled any watching. "Listen to me."

No one spoke, though several hands clutched weapons.

"WHY SHOULD WE?" Gawain said loudly, angrily.

"Because I will kill him."

Gawain was silent.

"Stop bloody stalking me! I made my own choice. It was all your faults, anyway! I will do what I want to do and you-NONE of you-will change my mind!"

Gabrieal paused. Well, this was it. He would kill Galahad, and then sprint back to the Saxon camp. He had run over it hundreds of times in his mind, and now everything was going according to plan.

But his hand would not move.

He cursed himself for his cowardliness. What an idiot he was! Just KILL him! But Gabrieal could. Not. Do it!

Was nothing fair? Nothing right? Was the whole world created to do battle against he, Gabrieal? He couldn't always fight! He just wanted...

Anything.

Choking, with tears blurring his vision, Gabrieal stood quickly, and sprinted out of sight.

Galahad stood up at once, and Gawain instantly ran over to him.

The knights breathed again. Some in anger. Some in relief.

Except for Tristan who knelt on the ground, dark eyes studying the blade of a dagger left behind.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-TBC-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Thanks for all the reviews! You all rock! Sorry about the shortness of this chapter! I'm afraid that this story is going to reach its climactic point on the next update (I'm shooting for tomorrow), and then start wrapping up. I will tell you one thing: Yes, Gabrieal is the scout in the movie. Lol, those who guessed it: Good work! Thanks again for reading!


	15. Confessions

Tristan was nearly silent when he entered Lancelot's room later that night. He cast one glance at the other knight, taking in the thick bandage draping over Lancelot's chest, and his pale complexion.

But Tristan was only looking for one thing, and he found it on a table across the room. The two twin blades lay next to each other, their dangerous sides glinting in the candle light.

Still so very quiet, Tristan placed Gabrieal's dagger next to the other weapons. He studied them with a puzzled frown.

The three blades were identical.

-0-0-0-0-0-Elevan Years Later-0-0-0-0-0-

"As promised," said Gawain. "The Bishop's carriage."

Galahad grinned. "Our freedom, Bors."

"Mmmm..." Said Bors thoughtfully. "I can almost taste it."

Gawain smiled genuinely. "Your passage to Rome, Arthur."

Later that night, Lancelot found himself alone in his quarters. The others were down at the tavern, but Lancelot felt strangely bittersweet on the eve of his freedom. It wasn't at all what he had always pictured himself feeling like.

Sighing, the Sarmatian decided to go for a quick ride before turning in for the night and dreaming of home.

He made his way down to the stables and greeted his horse. The black stallion threw back his head and whinnied in hello. Lancelot chuckled, and cast a look to the right. Baruss was still the playful brown horse he was fifteen years ago.

Lancelot urged his horse into a canter and breathed in deeply the air of the land that he hated.

On and on he rode, going no place in particular, just riding. On and on and on...

He didn't notice that he was being watched.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

"We are three days march from great Wall. If we camp at night-"

"We won't camp." Said Cynric. "The wall...what troops are stationed there?"

Gabrieal shifted a little, trying to hide his unease. "Light Roman infantry. And possibly Sarmatian knights. Arthur Castus is their leader."

Cerdic looked interested. "Arthur..."

Gabrieal felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Lancelot was still riding.

"You're out late." Said a voice.

Lancelot reacted so quickly, it would have startled any other man. He pulled out his swords and held them high, ready to fight.

"Who are you?"

The speaker stepped out of the woods casually.

Lancelot groaned. "Tristan!"

The other Sarmatian smiled slightly. "Lancelot."

Lancelot replaced his swords and rolled his eyes. "What is it that you want, Tristan? I was busy."

"Busy doing what, exactly?" Said Tristan, and Lancelot could have sworn that he raised an eyebrow as he said this.

"Thinking."

Tristan nodded, suddenly solemn. "You want to be free, and tomorrow you will be. So your heart is glad and relieved. But it is also sorrowful. You do not wish to leave Arthur; he is your best friend, and you are disgusted with the other Romans. You are also jealous," he ignored Lancelot's look that was steadily growing more angry. "Of Guinevere. You fear that she is taking your place, and that Arthur will forget you when you leave. And you still feel guilty."

Lancelot dismounted stiffly. He walked briskly over to Tristan. "And how exactly did you come by this information, hm?" He asked harshly.

"It was obvious." Tristan replied airily.

"Was it? And what exactly am I still feeling guilty about? Tell me, please, as I am quite confused by your words."

He laughed bitterly.

But Tristan nodded slowly, and continued. "Gabrieal." Lancelot's expression turned from cocky, to sour. "You feel guilty that you let him go, that you allowed him to give everything up...Because he is from your tribe."

"_What_?" Lancelot hissed sharply.

"Were you not aware?" Tristan said, looking mildly surprised. "I saw his dagger-it matched your swords identically."

"That doesn't mean...They could have been...Any swords could be...HE'S NOT FROM MY TRIBE!" Lancelot sputtered angrily.

"Why do you deny this?" Tristan asked calmly.

Lancelot wanted to scream. Because everything Tristan said had been true! How did he _always_ know? Always!

"I'm not denying anything!" Lancelot shouted.

"Then he is from your tribe?"

"YES! Yes he is! His family died in a...fire, when we were eight. Before that...I guess...We were friends? But not really. He didn't want any friends. Our entire village was burned to the ground, we lost everything. Except for my family, and a few others made it out. But so many died! I tried to help others-,"

(no you didn't you would have left your family behind)

"-But I was only eight! I couldn't even manage to save myself! Gabrieal was lucky, he wasn't in his hut at the time. I still don't know what he was doing. Nothing good, I'm sure. But when he returned, and saw the flames...He called out to me, asking me to help him save his parents-,"

(_Lancelot! My parents! Help, help! I can't do it alone!_)

"-But I," Lancelot broke off suddenly. He fought back tears furiously. "But I bloody couldn't!"

(you failed him you failed him)

Tristan was still silent.

"His family died...Because I wasn't there to save them. And Gabrieal died too, that day. Maybe not physically. But he hasn't been the same since." Lancelot suddenly looked desperately to Tristan. "But you have to understand! He's not all bad. He's made bad choices, but..."

And Lancelot found that he could not finish.

(you failed him twice not once twice)

"How can I go home knowing that I failed him, _again_?"

And Tristan sighed deeply, knowing that Lancelot already knew the answer.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Gabrieal struggled to breath against the stronghold of Cynric's choking grasp. "One man! A tiny fly on the back of your great army!"

But Arthur, he knew, was much more than a tiny fly.

They would meet tomorrow. And Gabrieal feared what he would see tomorrow at this time.

It began to rain.

Lines taken from _King Arthur_

-0-0-0-TBC-0-0-0-

A/N: Ok, next update, most of you know at least a little bit of what should happen. Hope I didn't disappoint! Thanks for the great reviews!

Always,

Analey :)


	16. Someday

A/N: So...this is it. The end of the road that was this story. I hope you enjoy this last chapter, and really, I hope you enjoyed this whole story. Lol, it's funny now, but the first chapter was actually meant to be a stand-alone one shot story, to cure my boredom. Before I knew it, it was growing and growing and some how managed to turn itself into Gabrieal's story...All of the people who reviewed, I hope you know how much you changed this story! Little dialogue and minor effects—stuff like that. The fact that I did all of it without a beta (anyone interested?), and managed not to totally humiliate myself with careless errors is still beyond me, lol! Thanks again, and now let us finish the tale...

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

_Damn you, Arthur_! Lancelot cursed silently, hands gripping the reins so hard they turned white at the knuckles. Typical Arthur, he just _had_ to spare their lives and send them free, while he shrunk into the distance as a doomed speck of resistance.

Perhaps it was something in the wind, or a distant sound, that made Lancelot's stallion (and all the other horses for that matter) suddenly shy away from the path, whinnying in protest. Lancelot frowned and tried to calm him.

He looked up at the sky. _Darn_. He'd waited fifteen long years, and then an additional month, and still! Still he was not free! But, Lancelot thought in that one moment, if freedom was leaving Arthur to his death, than he, Lancelot, could not take it. It was better to die for a friend then live leaving him to stand alone.

With a glance at the other knights, he knew at once that they, too, were in agreement, and together, they rode off to fight one last battle for the sake of Arthur.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Gabrieal couldn't speak.

Cerdic and Cynric stood at the mouth of the army, just waiting for the other side to attack.

For twelve years, Gabrieal had been one with the Saxons. He had ate with them, argued with them, bled with them. But he had never _fought_ with them. Oh, sure, with the _Woads_, and perhaps a Roman guard or two. But never against Arthur.

But he would today.

Cerdic had told him to watch from the tree. Like a coward. Like the bloody, stinking, coward that he was. But he would not hide! He was _not afraid_ of Arthur! Of Lancelot! Of any one of the remaining five knights!

Many had died.

So many Sarmatians...Gabrieal had watched. He felt no pity, no sympathy. He was beyond that. Perhaps, at one time, long ago, he would have felt guilty. Perhaps he would have regretted all his decisions, everything from the moment he and Lancelot had spoken, on the eve of his leaving. He had—

(_"Why don't you go away?"_)

--thought about it many times. It had haunted him. In his dreams he heard the words he spoken, in the wind he heard the replies he had shut out and—

(_"I can't stay either!"_)

--he could never ignore them. Never.

But he would fight this day. And if by death of a Sarmatian blade was to be his fate...

So be it.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The two armies clashed soon after. The Woads of the north arriving to aide Arthur and the five remaining Sarmatian knights. The sky became dark with the rain of flying arrows, blocking out the sun's light. The smoke from the fires poisoned the air and clouded the views. Horses and people alike cried out in pain, or in defiance. And bodies fell at a constant rate, like the steady rhythm of a summer storm.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Arthur and Cerdic fought, circling each other like a lion stalking her prey. Tristan lay lifeless on the ground not far away, unnoticed as of yet by the other knights, and already mourned by his Roman commander.

The two swords of the two leaders clashed heavily, piercing the air. Arthur knew that he could. Not. Loose. If any battle had meant something, this was it! He was fighting for freedom, for democracy, for the lives of his knights-his brothers! He would not loose!

Minutes upon minutes they fought. The swords clinging and rattling against the other, never ceasing but for a moment to catch breath. And as Arthur fell into the rhythm of battle, his thoughts began to wander...

"_The rebels! They've attacked the other part of the city! My mother-,"_

"_I-I am sorry...For your...er, loss..."_

"_She wanted to die..."_

"_I am Lancelot."_

"_My name is Arthur. You are a knight?"_

"_Yes."_

Yes. He would win this fight, not for himself. Not for Rome. But for those he loved. And Guinevere, Lancelot, the other knights, would see the light of tomorrow's sun. He promised himself he would not let them die!

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Gabrieal swung viciously at every knight and Woad that he could see. He would kill them all! Once again, the sword became his anger, and the enemy became his pain. He kept swinging and swinging, bringing down Woad after Woad. He'd show them! He'd show them all! He was strong! They could not forget about him, yell at him, and try to destroy him without paying a price! HIS price! He was in control, he had power! And so he swung...

That's when he saw it.

Lancelot and Cynric. Fighting to the death. Lancelot's two swords coming down again Cynric's, but he could not seem to win. They battled and battled, hatred running deep within both. But neither could seem to out spar the other. Until some Saxons behind Lancelot distracted him for a moment, and it was all that Cynric needed. Moving quickly, the Saxon dropped his sword next to a dead body of someone, and found a bow, and an arrow.

Gabrieal's eyes widened. So this was it. Lancelot would fall at the hands of a Saxon's arrow, and he would never rise again.

And this was what Gabrieal wanted.

Yes. Yes of course it was. It _was_ what he wanted!

"_You need to learn to accept change, Gabrieal. It's part of life..."_

"_No! I don't want you to go! You can't go!"_

"_Someday you will understand why..."_

"_I don't WANT to understand why!"_

"_Someday you will...learn to...let things go. Move on. Someday, Gabrieal, you will...know what is right, even if you made the wrong choice...you will know...Someday...I promise you...Someday..."_

"_NO! Adrean! Don't go!"_

"NO!"

Gabrieal's shout raised loud and pain-filled over the battleground. He ran faster than he had ever run before, sprinting to Cynric.

"NO!" He shouted again, pushing Cynric away from the bow.

"Get out of my way!" Cynric yelled, furious at him. But Gabrieal unsheathed his sword, holding it high above his head.

"You TRAITOR!" Cynric screamed, retrieving his sword, accepting the challenge. Gabrieal hardly knew what he was doing, but he knew what he had to do. He knew what Adrean would have done.

"I will not-let-you-_kill him_!" Gabrieal grunted between hits.

But somehow Cynric broke through Gabrieal's parries, slashing his wrist deep, splattering the air with blood.

Gabrieal cried out in pain, and dropped his sword. But Cynric didn't bother killing Gabrieal, he instead turned back to Lancelot.

And Gabrieal could only watch as the arrow pierced Lancelot's chest, how the dark-haired Sarmatian fell to the ground. Somehow, Gabrieal managed to lift his sword, and throw it with all his might at Cynric, and watched as the Saxon, too, fell dead to the ground.

Tears flooded down Gabrieal's face as he dropped his sword to the ground. Backing up slowly, he couldn't tear his gaze from Lancelot's still form.

"I'm sorry." He whispered with a shaking voice. "I'm so sorry!" He shouted, breaking into sobs. He turned and ran.

He had failed! He had failed them all! Joined the enemy when the only people who would have cared fell under his traitorous words!

It was all his fault! All of it!

"_Someday you will...learn to...let things go."_

He dropped to his knees in the forest, head in his hands, sobs racking his body mercilessly.

"_Someday you will understand_."

And Gabrieal suddenly did.

_Finis_

(Epilogue coming soon!)


	17. Epilogue

"_The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong."_-Gandhi

-0-0-Epilogue-0-0-

A young man sits atop a field overlooking the cemetery. His handsome features are creased in a sadness too deep to ever be rid of, his sharp blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

He watches black smoke rise up from the funeral being held, and his grieving eyes closes as if he can not bare to watch. To remember.

For hours he sits there, eyes staring out into nothing, just looking past fields of grazing horses. Long after the funerals are ended, long after the sun had dropped low in the sky, he finally rises. His hands lay motionless at his side, and they curl slightly, as if they are not used to being freed from iron fists.

He feels no anger, now. No fury. He is finally freed, it seems, from the steal chains binding him to vengeanceful longing. And so he walks down the hill and through the fields, until he stands not far from the graves.

It does not take him long to realize that he is not alone. Another man crouches beside the only grave without a sword, but he does not weep.

They stand like that for awhile. Neither sure of the other's presence, and so silence is the only noise above the cries of birds.

"Why did you do it?" The man crouching says, finally looking the other's way. His green eyes are dry, but they are mourning deep inside. His blonde hair is tangled and wavy, clearly untamed.

The other is quiet for a while, choosing not to answer for fear of the wrong answer.

"I'm sorry." He says finally, and he means it. Oh! He means it! Tears threaten to come, but he is strong, and fights them back. He will not cry.

"I.." the crouched man began, and the other cringes internally, terrified of what he will hear.

"I don't know why you did that. Why you tried to save him. You've spent all these years trying to kill him."

The other swallows heavily. "I never wanted him to die."

There is silence again.

"Arthur will not smile, not even for Guinevere. I didn't see it happen. I only saw what came after, but Bors did. He says you tried to stop that blasted Saxon but..." The crouching one shook his head slowly.

"I am sorry. To everyone." The other says again. Because he does not know what else there is _to_ say.

Once again silence fills the darkening air.

But then the one crouching stands, and looks directly at the other. He nods again, and the corners of his mouth curve upward ever so slightly.

"I forgive you, Gabrieal."

And that is enough for both of them. The other finds that he cannot quite catch his breath with relief that he does not deserve. This time he lets the tears fall down his face, as he backs away slowly.

He offers a small, tentative smile. The first in many, many years that reaches his glittering eyes.

He runs away from the scene, his heart's sorrow lessened a bit, though tears still flow down his cheeks. He runs until he comes to a small river, where he crouches next to its banks.

"I understand now, Adrean!" He shouts to the wind that whips the night. "I understand!"

The cemetery is still and it is quiet.

But the one who still stands there does not mind the sad tranquility. He has his freedom, and perhaps, by some small miracle, he has given another freedom, too. But he can only hope.

He smiles sadly again, and gazes as the tombstone.

"Lancelot," he whispers. "It's my birthday."


End file.
